smarter than the average bare...a big bunch of writing by chelsea g. summers

21 October 2006

in defense of my big-ass fake titties

I want to talk about my tits.

Never a mother, and therefore never needing them for their primary evolutionary purpose of feeding young, my breasts are primarily for show. They are two great, big teeming D-cups of conventional femininity. They are unsubtle, my boobs. You’d never accuse them of being shrinking violets, of hiding their lights under a bushel, of pretending toward false modesty.

My rack is out, loud, proud, and fake.

I am for myself a fan of the big breasts. However, that preference is merely for my own; I find other women’s breasts beautiful in all sizes and shapes. I have found myself equally attracted to women who burgeoned with double-scooped sundaes of breasts and to whose who were flat as a grey-glass sea. I am an equal-opportunity bisexual when it comes to other women’s breasts. But for myself, I’ve always liked myself best as a big-breasted chick.

Always. Even when I was somewhere in between an A and a B cup, the size that my genetics gave me. My breasts grew suddenly, one night when I was twelve. It felt as if one day I had those telltale puffy areolas of nascent pubescence and the next morning I had a gently cupped palm full of breast. Which would have been fine, except that in addition to growing my fresh spanky shiny boobs, I had also grown blighted bright red stretch marks that emanated out from my mallowmar areolas like ugly stringy weedy flowers.

That night when I was twelve and finally grew my boobs, when I woke that morning to find them, like stingy treats from a cranky titfairy, I felt severely cheated. From having grown up with fresh-air loving, naked-in-the-rain-dancing hippie parents and grown up around my mother’s brothers and their 60s and 70s-era Playboy and Penthouse magazines, I knew full fucking well what boobs were supposed to look like, and I knew these striped things on my chest weren’t it.

Moreover, I had, from the time I was very young, known that great big American breasts were my birthright. When I played grown up with my little friends, and we all shoved socks into our tanktops or bathing suits, I always stuck three or four pairs against each flat brown nipple, stretching my top out to tent-strained excess, and then I would stand back and admire my body. Growing up, I thought Raquel Welch, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield owned the body that I myself would grow to inhabit.

My own breasts, the ones my DNA gave me, were a mystifying disappointment.

When I was thirty, I was stripping, and I finally had the money and the reason and the support to buy myself the birthright that my genetics had denied me. Like the practice of the eighteenth-century gentry who bought titles of nobility, I could purchase that thing, or those things, that stood between me and my idea of myself. I could, and I did.

I went to Maitland, Florida and I got a pair of 430cc saline implants. (I’ve documented the experience here, and you can read it if you like.) It took me about two weeks to find out that I was head over heels in love with my new big-ass fake tits. I loved them when they were still high and shiny and vaguely pointed as missiles, as John Paul Gauthier bras, as ConeHeads. And when they dropped and fell into their relaxed and natural position, I only loved them more.

My body has been an embattled site for as long as I remember. I always felt inadequate in one way and superfluous in another. I always doubted that I was pretty. I never felt thin enough. And it all feels like a tedious kind of emo melodrama, what with all of the attention that the media is giving female body image at the moment, to rehash those long sieges against my thighs, those prolonged blockades of food, that decades-long war I have had had with the woman in the mirror. Suffice to say, my body: embattled.

However, once I got my breasts, my body anxiety lessened. I never, for one thing, felt badly about my boobs. And I certainly never hated my body as much as I had when it just…felt…not…quite…right. My big augmented breasts gave me some small piece of mind.

Some people have found it paradoxical, if not downright hypocritical, that I am an implanted feminist. But I am. I wish I could just say “My body and my choice,” but the issue is much more tangled and complex than that pat retort, though even I myself find difficulty in explaining my choice without finding holes in my own argument, trained rhetorician that I am.

But let me put it this way: while I enjoy the patriarchal perks of the large breasted—I have never gotten a traffic ticket, for example, in my D-cup state; I never wait in line at appliance stores; I get help with my computer faster than most people, even in the very alt-snotty part of Gotham where I live—I didn’t get my breasts because I wanted to please men. And even though I got them while I was stripping, and even though I knew the augmentation was a wise business move, and it was, I also knew that I’d have to live with the big boobs long after I quit stripping, so I didn’t get them just to put money in my garter.

Without intending to forge an analogy too hyperbolic, I got them for the gut-inarticulate reason that transgender people choose to endure what they endure in order to change themselves: because I felt I was in the wrong body. Inside my B- cup body was a big-titted woman waiting to come out. I simply—and inexplicably—feel more genuinely me with a 38” chest.

I recognize that in this piece of writing I’m sidestepping many cultural landmines of power, femininity, sexuality, and politics, but this piece can’t possibly do justice to that whole fecund jungle so ripe for analysis. Yet I have been motivated to write because it feels as if boob jobs have been beleaguered of late. Between the British study averring Brit men’s dislike of fake breasts and Tara Reid’s public disowning of her plastic surgery choices, boob jobs have been taking it on their metaphoric chins.

I want, therefore, to stand up and declare proudly, I love my big artificial tits.

They’re fake and they are spectacular.

And, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, they make me feel like a natural(ized) woman.

Comments

Huh. As always, an interesting piece. I got to say you do fill out your lovely bits very well. And it is refreshing to take a stand (especially with something like this) and be proud of it (or at least not ashamed afterwards). Alluding to the grand narritive, it does bring up a lot of questions, but frankly fuck it. You love them, you radiate with them, and nothing says sexy like confidence...and I do love a cutie with big tits and a nice ass.

That is the only reason to do any augmentation - for yourself. Not to please anybody *but* yourself. I know one person who did it for her (now ex-) husband. She was happy with the results, but the relationship didn't improve that much. Her boobs were not the reason for the marital problems, nor were they the solution. And at least they were not considered 'community property' during the divorce settlement hearing. ;)

There are perks to big breasts. When my wife and I would go to Dead, or Phish shows, she always wore something to accentuate the rack ! When we would go through the security line the guys would hardly notice me...they couldnt keep their eyes off her. lol

I dont even notice guys that stare at my wifes breasts anymore, it used to really bother me. They are beautiful, and I enjoy knowing that other people think they are too !

ok...the words "stupid bitch", followed by liking Chelsea-girl to a whore and then immediately talking about civil rights seems, well, incongruous.

That is of course surpassed by another sub-sentence when Chelsea-girl is depicted entirely by the inaccurately stated “bouncing sacks of silicone” - though maybe the “person” meant the outer layer as opposed to the content, in which case they should have said “bouncing silicone sacks” or even “bouncing silicone sacks of saline” (she sells seashells by the seashore).

Despite all that nonsense, I tried to comprehend the lack of feminism that having implants would somehow indicate. I started by assuming that the “person” thought changing appearance medically was non-feminist behavior. Of course an exception would probably be the using of prescription creams for acne, or the removal of a wart or even, more drastically, some optional dental work to fix crooked teeth. I on the other hand don’t believe these to be anti-feminist. I then moved to the changing appearance to be “more attractive” but most people get haircuts etc…so that was short lived.

Finally, I realized that the “person” believes that certain body parts of a woman can not be messed with in anyway or you are anti-feminist. Once again the logic grinds to a stop because this would be ignoring the Chelsea-girl’s thoughts and attitude and focusing criticism on her breasts…very un-feminist.

Please anonymous “person” supply me with further incite on your two sentences or I will have to assume your a just a mindless stereotype(r).

If something makes you happy and that something hurts nobody else, then your happiness preempts all cultural stigma. I, however, would have used something with a higher resolution than a cell phone to photograph the bikini.

Yeayyyy, Chelsea ! You said exactly what I went through/think !!! I went from an a cup to 400's myself (although on my 36" rib cage body frame they are a C cup) -- and I LOVE them !!! And so does every guy I have been with !
Good for you -- and you said it quite well !
Hope you are having an excellent Sunday.
Sincerely,
Anne Elizabeth

Thanks for making me think this morning. I am also an equal opportunity bisexual woman when it comes to breasts; they can be spectacular at any size. When I talk to women who want implants, I'm always secretly thinking, "Your body, your choice, but why change what's already fine?" But you're absolutely right: I would never think that about a transgendered person.
I'm also a big fan of big breasts on me, and I'm lucky that I grew my own set of D cups. Maybe it's not fair of me to say, "I would never do that." Maybe I would.

Bravo! Again as always you articulate what myself and, no doubt others have believed. And for the record, from the small view of you that we have through your thumbnail pics you are quite fetching. Add your words and you are a dangerously beautiful, open-minded and inteligent woman. Should I only be so lucky to find my chelsea girl one day.

My thoughts are similar to velveteenviolet's. I've never understood why someone would get implants *other* than for someone else. However, I'm absolutely enamoured with my own boobage -- a word I've been using a lot lately, for some reason. 36C on a petite 5'2" frame. Like you, I always assumed I would be busty, but luckily, unlike you, I did end up that way. So, perhaps if I hadn't, I, too, would have wanted and gotten implants. Mmmm, I think I'd be too terrified of losing sensitivity, though.

Often in the blogosphere, or in larger media, there arises some kind of lighting rod, and it feels as if you can't turn a page, a channel or a link without hitting whatever that hot subject du jour is.

Last week, I felt like everywhere I went, I saw people knocking breast augmentation. Sometimes they meant to. The new study I linked to certainly gave people the big green light to chime in on how horrible implants are. Other times, it was more subtle. A blogger would write a post about Tara Reid's new Us Weekly confession that she wished she'd never had surgery and then follow it with "What do we think, ladies?" The implicit answer is that we think we'd never do that to our bodies.

And it's a question to which I respectfully demur. I would. I did. And I'd do it again. And so it wasn't that I was defending my choice to an individual; it was that I felt the need to stand up, head held high, chest up and say that I {heart} my big-ass fake titties.

You are damned right to love them, they look great, indeed. I´d clearly opt for a boob job to make myself happy. In my case - being proudly big breasted - it will be to repair the damage of age and breastfeeding....Keep enjoying yours....kisses

i think that, in our actions, we can never know, for sure, the difference between the powers we support and the powers we subvert.

and as nuanced as it is, and as long as it doesn't hurt others, sometimes, it is best to take an informed and deliberate risk, and indulge in our own pleasures, especially when it comes to figuring out how to be truly IN our bodies.

Not that my (cro-magnon?) male opinion means much in a such pro-feminine post... Yes you indeed have great tits. With D cups that danced at Flashdancers, they must be absolutely incredible in the flesh.

Question - even though your tits garner you privileges, do you ever get offended when breast mesmerized men gawk as they heap the priviliges on you?

That first comment really shocked and disturbed me. I seriously doubt that person would be so upset by some other form of plastic surgery- one without sexual implications. I think someone gave him/her the bad touch. It's your body and good on you for being honest about what you want from it.

Can a feminist not suffer from body dysmorphic states like the rest of the population? Psssh.

You knew what you wanted and you went for it. Personally, I think it's ridiculous the way it's judged. People alter their bodies in small and large ways every day- make up, hair dying, hair cutting, tattoos, piercings. Are control top panty hose not feminist approved? My point, one can take anything to extremes...

My only gripe with fake boobs are when they're done BADLY. The surgeons performing such debacles ought to be shot. Ugh.

I cannot imagine how life must have been for dear Chelsea Girl before her boob job. Like Chelsea, Velvetviolet and Chislut, I always knew I would have big breast, and luckily I do. I know that if I did not grow them I would desperatly want a boob job, and would probably be saving for one now.

I do plan to have a breast reduction, but that will be after have had children, probably once I hit 40, so another 20 years of the wonderful breasts. (I have developed strange fantasies of being able to find a nice bra in my size, or clothes that fit nicely, ah the pain of the busty.

Oh and The Fury, I have never had a problem with how people stare at my breasts. When I am not showing any cleavage they bairly get a second glance. If I show cleavage I fully understand the staring. I can't stop myself from staring at other girls cleavage. I even try to stop sometimes. :)